


The Considerable Upsides to Brotherly Sentiment

by WhatSheDidNext



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Angst, Brotherly Love, Drug Addiction, Eating Disorders, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, No Romance, Other, Post-The Final Problem, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:29:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27197852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatSheDidNext/pseuds/WhatSheDidNext
Summary: After the events of Sherrinford, old wounds resurface and Mycroft Holmes is struggling. Unbeknownst to him, his younger brother Sherlock knows more about Mycroft's issues than he ever let on.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	The Considerable Upsides to Brotherly Sentiment

**Author's Note:**

> tw eating disorders, drug addiction, general self-destruction

Sherlock Holmes is not particularly fond of any displays of affection, be they public or otherwise. Caring is not an advantage – that’s what Mycroft drilled into him from a young age, although Sherlock did remind him many times he was being a tad contradictory by looking after him throughout his drug addiction. His older brother then always told him to piss off, obviously. However hypocritical his background, however far he had come as a person since meeting John Watson, Sherlock hates baring his emotions, despises being attached, eschews any attempt to draw out anything that may be mistaken by the dull and boring as _sentiment_. And that is precisely why the impact of Eurus Holmes was so severe. So harsh. So deeply disturbing that Sherlock finds himself now in the one situation he had avoided for his thirty-four years of tumultuous existence: a serious conversation with his brother.

Sherlock is sat in 221B Baker Street, alone – John has gone out, assumedly to pick up Rosie from the childminder, and Mrs Hudson could literally be anywhere with anyone – when a familiar knock rings out through his flat. No, not familiar – familial. Mycroft. A case, then. A big one, considering Mycroft hasn’t been working very much at all since Sherrinford. Moriarty? No, that’s over, for good this time. Ever the curious type, the detective shakes his deductions away and sat up in his armchair. “Social call, blud?”

Mycroft enters, looking as sunken and defeated as he had for the past few months if not more so. “I do wish you would stop referring to me as such, brother mine. It is a tad colloquial, don’t you think?”

“Yes. Why are you here?”

“Cutting to the chase, are we?”

“As ever. Who is it this time, the Russians? The Americans? Please, tell me you’ve not managed to send the country into civil war, Mycroft, even for you that’s-“

“I am, in fact, here on a…” Mycroft pauses uncomfortably, “social call.”

Sherlock stops for thought. That isn’t right, that doesn’t quite make sense. He has been using again, but Mycroft cannot know about that, it is covert, all the necessary bases covered to avoid the unwanted attention of the British government. The two had exchanged phone calls a total of five times since the events of the month before and each time it had been professional, transactional. Something has changed, or Mycroft wouldn’t be stood here. Is Mycroft-

“Am I expected to stand here while you deduce me,” Mycroft cuts in coolly, “or am I invited to sit.”

“You may sit.” Sherlock nods toward the chair opposite. As his older brother starts towards the chair, he continues, “You may sit, if you promise me once you are sat down you will not lie to me, you will not hide anything that I may need to know, that you will not make me suffer through any of your pompous, protective big-brother bullshit.”

Mycroft sighs, hesitates, but he eventually nods courteously and sits down. Weakly, Sherlock notes, as if the arm of the chair is the only thing stopping him from hitting the ground below. He feels a twinge of something in his chest, but he doesn’t care enough to identify it as an emotion. Caring is not an advantage. All people die, all hearts are broken.

“You have lost fifteen pounds since I last saw you in person.”

Mycroft freezes. “Yes, I – I’m watching my diet, Sherlock. Something you ought to do, judging by the amount of takeaway boxes in your kitchen, although I am delighted to see your appetite is returning.”

“It’s the weed.” Sherlock replies bluntly.

“Excuse me?”

“Marijuana. Mary Jane. Flying Mexican Airlines, the devil’s lettuce.”

“Thank you, brother mine, I know perfectly well what weed is, I went to university in the 1980s.” Mycroft offers with raised eyebrows. “Why are you using it?”

“A low-level dealer owed me a favour. Little bit sober for my tastes, but it’s done wonders for my sleeping schedule, now back on the subject, you have lost over a stone.”

“Have we not established this fact already? I’m afraid all that marijuana is affecting your memory, brother mine.” The older brother remarks.

“Calloused knuckles, consistent with Russell’s sign. Rapid weight loss achievable only by an excessive exercise regimen and meagre diet enforced by an obsessive personality. Your knock was weaker, you struggled to get into your chair and your bones are protruding. Your waistcoat is too big, it’s an old one from before you gained last year’s weight so it’s the smallest one you own and yet it’s hanging off of you. You’re pale, not just pale, you’re entirely and life-threateningly malnourished. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you’re focused on the wrong addiction, _brother mine_.”

Mycroft stops wholly this time, his gaze fixed unmoving on the ground below. He gulps as if the air in his lungs isn’t enough, stares as if he wants the ground to swallow him whole. _How the tables have turned now_ , he thinks bitterly. “You are reaching.” He tries.

“And you are dying. Balance of probability, if all the signs are there but one the deduction is sound. That is what you used to teach me, although you did spend most of my early childhood barricaded in the bathroom spewing up Mummy’s lunches.” Sherlock concedes.

“You knew.” Mycroft says, shocked. He had always known Sherlock was observant, but why should he see something that not even his own parents, tutors, servers could?

“Of course I knew.” Sherlock replies, quieter now, seemingly having taken himself out of detective mode.

There’s a silence in Baker Street as the two Holmes boys process the conversation shared. The Ice Man, melted, and the Virgin, not as naïve and innocent as the former once thought. Much to the dismay of both parties, it is clear that sentiment hangs in the air, tones of guilt, fear, confusion begging to be cut with some logical thought or witty comeback. But alas, nothing of the sort. After a while, Sherlock finds his voice. 

“Regretfully, I could not be there for you before-“

“Sherlock.”

“Let me finish.” The detective sighs, “Regretfully, I could not be there for you before. But I am here now and I am with you to the end of the line.” He pauses, carefully choosing his words, knowing that once this conversation is over they will return to their respective self-destruction. “Your loss would break my heart.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading <3  
> IG @elaheeley / @wh0tfisela


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